


An Unwanted Present

by teamrocket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete crack, Crack, Inside jokes e'erywhere, M/M, This is a birthday present for Callie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamrocket/pseuds/teamrocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries his hardest to make John's birthday a special one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unwanted Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callie who does not have an AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Callie+who+does+not+have+an+AO3).



> For [Callie](http://a-scienceofdeduction.tumblr.com/).  
> I meant to post it on your birthday because I wrote it before you left but I forgot. I tried my best to make it rated T. Also you might find a few bits familiar, as you actually helped me write this unknowingly.
> 
> For anyone else who is unfortunate enough to stumble upon this work, here is a [visual](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4hisehgOu1qiwndio2_r1_500.jpg) for what happens later. It might be best to read this first and look at the picture later.

 221B Baker Street was an uncharacteristically, peacefully quiet for late March. Of course, 221B Baker Street was an uncharacteristically, peacefully quiet _any_ time of the year, even when Detective Inspector Lestrade didn't have a case for the consulting detective; sometimes, it was even louder in the short hiatuses between cases, where Sherlock was an even more disagreeable, dangerously-bored Sherlock than normal. However, for the first time since John and Sherlock moved in, 221B was eerily serene – so eerily serene that Mrs. Hudson couldn't sleep in her flat, as the whole building just felt so _weird_ being so calm, without her boys. The first night, she had lain there on her bed, staring at the ceiling in her nightgown, just waiting for something upstairs to explode, but that never came. Originally, she had debated back-and-forth with herself whether to surprise the boys with a visit after declining their offer to join them a week ago. Eventually, she settled on her initial decision not to after reminding herself that who knew what shenanigans they were up to. Yet, while they _were_ up to shenanigans, it wasn't the kind that the lighthearted landlady had in mind, although that's not to say that they hadn't been before this very moment. After all, one's blogger's birthday was a very special time indeed.

*

John's birthday was on March 31, but Sherlock had taken him down to the Holmes' little cottage in Sussex since Sunday, and they had been casually romping around and faffing about for the last four days. One benefit of being in the drastically dull, isolated countryside was that there was no one to hear their noisy, ground-shaking, bed-breaking sex, and John wasn't worrying about what Mrs. Hudson thought of his moans; Sherlock had finally learned how loud John could be in the secluded countryside. However, while he would've loved to be thrusting in and out of his lover's _fantastic_ ass, his hands cupping John's firm cheeks – or even better, _John_ pounding into his own, holding onto Sherlock's hips for support, it was John's birthday, and Sherlock wasn't just going take the former army doctor down to Sussex for the week and call it a present; no, Sherlock was going to be thorough for his John and bake him a cake.

At that moment, the consulting detective was cutting open a box of chocolate cake mix while cheerfully humming along to Mendelssohn's “Spring Song,” which John was particularly fond of – although he did not know it by name – but nevertheless, he still enjoyed Sherlock playing it, perhaps even more than “Flight of the Bumblebee.” He furrowed his brow at the box and poured as much of the box into the bowl without it overflowing. Perhaps that was a bit too much?

Sherlock picked up the box and frowned at the instructions; that was absurd! Did John go through this much trouble every day? Shrugging, he cracked in two eggs, or at least, _attempted_ to crack two eggs; the yolks gushed all over his hands both time, with bits and pieces of the shells landing into the mixing bowl. He icily glared at the mixing bowl, as if this was its fault, before sighing, annoyed. Eggshells were full of calcium and protein, anyway; it would be good for John.

One-fourth cup of water? He filled his beaker up under the sink and poured it into the bowl. He glanced back at the instructions, his blue eyes widening.

“There is no way that I'm putting _vegetable oil_ in my beaker! No, absolutely not!” Sherlock argued with the box.

“Sherlock? Are you sure you don't need help in there?” came John's voice from the other side of the locked door.

“No, John, I'm fine. Why would I need your help? I'm perfectly capable of baking; it's just basic chemistry,” Sherlock insisted. He heard John's sigh before the doctor resumed his worrying-about-Sherlock on the couch in the other room. The consulting detective turned his attention back to the vegetable oil, unscrewing the cap. He eyed the transparent jug and tipped it over, pouring what looked like about a cup and a half of vegetable oil into the bowl...when he lost control of the jug and somehow, it ended up on the tile floor swimming in a little pool of vegetable oil.

 _I'll just leave that here for Mycroft to find the next time he visits the cottage_ , Sherlock thought, stepping over the vegetable oil. He put his hands on his hips. Now, to stir...

Sherlock opened a drawer, tossing out several utensils, including a knife or two, before his long fingers hooked themselves around a long wooden spoon. He stuck it into the bowl and dragged it around a few circles before he became impatient. Sherlock whipped his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text to his brother.

_Do we have an electric whisk in the cottage? -SH_

His fingers anxiously danced across the countertop, tapping out a steady rhythm as he waited for a reply. His phone lit up, and the consulting detective quickly grabbed it.

_It's in the top cupboard on the right. What are you up to? -MH_

Sherlock ignored his brother's question and threw open the cupboard doors. Thankfully for Mycroft, the electric whisk was right by the doors; there would be no broken appliances lying on the floor, waiting for the elder Holmes...for now. The consulting detective's quick fingers jabbed the plug towards the outlet, succeeding after three tries. He positioned the appliance above the bowl and flicked the switch onto the highest speed. The whisk jerked on, batter flying everywhere. Sherlock's arm shook violently as he struggled to control the electric whisk, his eyes bulging. Batter sloshed out the edge as the beater churned wildly. Both his hands were now grabbing onto the handle of the spinning appliance, hanging on for dear life. Finally, he managed to punch the button that stopped the beater from spinning, and the bowl tipped back upright.

Catching his breath, he mussed up his dark-brown curls and surveyed the condition of his cake batter. The lumpy, milky-brown mixture filled up just over half of the bowl now, with the rest either splattered on the wall, the counter, floor, or the consulting detective himself. He scowled at the mess that it made on his purple button-up shirt.

 _This is revolting_ , he thought as his nostrils flared and his nose scrunched up in disgust, _How can Mycroft_ stand _this gunk?!_

Repulsed, his hands attempted to brush the unevenly-mixed goo from his shirt, which only made it worse, as it smeared down his chest. Sherlock cringed and resumed baking John's birthday cake. He should've worn his apron, the one that Mrs. Hudson got him last Christmas, despite the fact that he didn't cook. No, no, right. He was right not to; it might get dirty. After all, it _did_ have “Baking is science for hungry people.” printed on it. Clearly too true to soil. Although many recipes _do_ call for a chemically imbalanced quantities of lipids and sugars...

Sherlock turned the cake mix box over to read the instructions again.

_6.) Pour the cake batter into a pan and place it into the oven preheated to 350_ _°_ _F._

Sherlock gaped at the box, tossing it across the kitchen in anger. _Preheat?!_ Fuming, he flicked the oven on, punching the buttons to set the temperature, and sulking, he waited for it to heat up. The consulting detective retrieved his phone from the countertop, wiping the stray cake batter from the screen, and tapped out a quick text to his companion.

_John, this is your fault. Happy birthday. -SH_

It only took a moment for John to reply. _Sherlock, are you alright in there? Do you want me to come in and help? -JW_

_No, go away. What are you doing right now? Watching crap telly again? -SH_

_Doctor Who, actually. It's the episode where they try to save Amy and her baby. -JW_

_So crap telly, then. River Song is her daughter. Quite obvious, isn't it? -SH_

_Dammit, Sherlock. You've spoiled it. -JW_

Sherlock smiled at the phone, satisfied at John's annoyance. He glanced irately at the oven, which was still only 175°.

_John, make the oven go faster. -SH_

_Oh, you're baking something, now? From all the ruckus, I thought you were killing something in there. -JW_

_Not helpful, John. -SH_

_Sorry. -JW_

Sherlock sighed, leaning against the counter, letting his phone slide out of his fingers as he watched the oven. The consulting detective poured the cake batter into a short, cylindrical pan. He wiped his fingers off on the counter, grimacing. The consulting detective strode over to the far corner of the kitchen, where a flask half-full with a green liquid and a red chilli pepper sat next to each other on the windowpane. He filled an eyedropper with the chemical and squeezed it onto the pepper, which grew slightly. Looking pleased, he lifted his flask and poured half of it into the cake batter, mixing it in with the discarded wooden spoon.

The oven dinged, ready. Sherlock slid the cake pan into the oven, setting the timer for half an hour. The consulting detective strode out of the kitchen, joining his lover on the couch to watch some crap telly.

*

“Are you _sure_ that you don't want my help?” John asked for the umpteenth time as the alarm went off.

“Really, John, I'm sure. After all, it's only baking a cake,” Sherlock said, heading back into the kitchen.

“Okay,” John said, concerned, “remember, it's okay if it's not perfect. I'll help you make a second one if you'd like.”

“Are you suggesting that my cooking skills leave something to be desired for? I assure you that it will be worth your wait.”

“Right, right.” John slid back into the couch, wrinkling his forehead, and turned his head towards the kitchen door, where his stubborn boyfriend had forbidden him to go until the cake was ready.

Meanwhile, Sherlock slipped on an oven mitt that Mycroft had gotten for free (There was a picture of an American 2012 presidential candidate on the glove with a cheesy slogan that read “Trustworthy as an oven-Mitt Romney!” Mycroft had accepted it out of diplomatic courtesy. Sherlock had no qualms with soiling it; he supported Obama instead.), and carefully brought the cake pan out. He set it on the counter and waited for it to cool for all of three seconds. Sherlock grabbed a plate, turned the pan upside-down, and nothing. He shook the cake pan, but the cake stayed in the pan. Grumbling to himself, he fished out a knife and hacked the cake out.

The cake, well, didn't look very much like a cake. It resembled a large pile of crumbs somehow staying together, instead. Sherlock sawed off the rough edges, attempting to make it more cake-shaped.

 _I suppose I'll just disguise it with frosting_ , he thought, fetching the frosting piper. Sherlock squirted vanilla frosting all over the place until it totally camouflaged all signs of cake. 

Standing back, he surveyed his creation. Something was missing.

“John!” he called out, “Can I borrow your jam?” He heard the sounds of John falling off the sofa.

“No! What do you want with my jam?” John cried out from the other room. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John's direction. So that wasn't it. Ah! Of course! How could he have missed it! He stuck a single candle into the confection and brought it out for John.

“Happy birthday!” he said, trying to sound cheerful. John eyed the cake warily.

“Sherlock, um...” he began, trailing off.

Sherlock blinked. “Problem? John, I made you cake. Don't you want it?”

“Erm, Sherlock you really didn't have to,” John struggled to find a way to excuse himself from eating it in the kindest way possible, squirming a little.

“John, I can't just bring you to the countryside, bang you a few times, and call it a day,” Sherlock insisted, “As a token of my gratitude, I insist you eat it.”

“Sherlock, well, that's an awful lot of frosting...”

“Now you're just stalling. Quickly, before Mycroft shows up.”

“Why would Mycroft show up?”

“Well, he always does, to make sure that I don't get you anything illegal or dangerous or both,” Sherlock explained innocently.

“Yes, it's not like that's happened before,” John muttered sarcastically.

“Well, I didn't expect you to be going to New Zealand with... _ah!_ Sarah!” Sherlock said defensively.

John stared at him in disbelief. “That was you? We broke up because of that! I was referring to Christmas! Sherlock, next year, just buy me a gift card or something _normal_. Maybe a nice jumper?” John suggested.

“Oh. Well, that wasn't really my fault either.”

“Sherlock...” John sighed. “My point is that – ” Fortunately for Sherlock, he never got to hear what John's point was, for just then, there was a shatter of glass breaking coming from the kitchen.

“Sherlock, what was that?” John asked warily.

“Dunno. Haven't the faintest.” Sherlock silently crept over to the kitchen door and peered in. What little color was in his face to begin with drained out. He slammed the door and grabbed John's arm, gripping it tightly.

“Run,” he ordered urgently, dragging him out of the room.

“Sherlock, what was that? What's in there?” he asked with an even warier edge to his voice.

“Experiment gone wrong. Let's go!” John twisted his neck, looking behind them, as the kitchen door was ripped from its hinges.

“What the bloody hell is _that?!_ ” John gasped. Standing where the door used to be was a giant chilli pepper swollen a hundred times its original size and very much alive. It was an electric green and had monstrous red eyes, giant red bags under its eyes, a long crooked nose, and a horrifyingly sickening grin plastered on its face.

“Oh my god, it's got eyes and a nose and _teeth_ – it's got a face, Sherlock. That pepper's got a face! What is that thing?!”

Sherlock jerked John's arm. “I told you, experiment gone wrong. Upstairs. We haven't got much time.” John scrambled to his feet, tripping on the stairs, with Sherlock pulling his arm and knocking him down. He struggled to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. The two dashed down the hall and slipped behind the door to their room. Fumbling, Sherlock bolted the door and pulled John into the closet.

“Sherlock,” the ex-army doctor began, his heart pounding.

“Shhh!” Sherlock shushed him, putting a finger up to his lips. They listened to the sounds of the giant pepper stomping up the stairs. The whole floor shook.

“Sherlock,” John tried again, whispering, “are you ever going to tell me what that _is_?!”

“I already told you; it's an experiment gone wrong. I was experimenting with a compound similar to the genetic mutations found in the Hulk. I thought I changed it enough so that it would only cause a slight growth in height, but apparently not.”

“Wait, so...is _that_ why you baked me a cake?”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. “I thought that you'd like to be a little taller,” Sherlock admitted sheepishly.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?!” John demanded.

“Herbicide will kill peppers – monstrous, chemically-mutated peppers too. There is some in the greenhouse outside if I can get to it. Of course, we can try to mutilate it if we had a gun, but there is a chance that it could withstand it, depending on how strong it is. I think I tampered with the compound enough, however, for that to work, or at least stall it temporarily. The weed killer should cause it to shrivel up back to regular size.”

“Well, I suppose it's a good thing I brought this,” John pulled out his gun from his coat hanging in the closet. “I thought it would be a good idea to be prepared,” he explained grimly. “After all, it _is_ my birthday, and who knew what you were going to get me as a present?”

Sherlock stared at him for a second before cupping John's cheek, brushing his lips against his, sucking on his lower lip. John's hand moved to the nape of his neck while the other one was tangled in Sherlock's hair, tugging gently. Sherlock's hand slid down from John's cheek, caressing his jaw, before moving down to John's jumper, slipping under. John lightly nibbled on Sherlock's lower lip, and the tip of his tongue poked inside the corner of his mouth, pushing inside. Sherlock could feel John's hands, John's tongue, John's _heartbeat_. He could feel the electricity between them as he inadvertently, incrementally pushed the jumper up higher, exposing more and more of John's skin, and both of their pulses quickening with arousal. He could also feel, however, that this was perhaps not the best time to be snogging, given the circumstances. Having reached that conclusion, Sherlock reluctantly broke apart from his companion, causing John to look up at him with a mixture of accusation for stopping and slight embarrassment for allowing himself to be so enthralled.

“C'est pourquoi Je t'aime,” Sherlock murmured.

John chuckled softly. “Love you, too.” He had learned to recognize a few key phrases of French, Latin, and the dozens of other languages that Sherlock spoke fluently.

Outside, there was a loud noise that sounded awfully a lot like the bedroom door being ripped apart. Sherlock's grip on John's arm tightened.

“Well, this is it.” He opened the closet door slightly, and John aimed through the crack. The bullet made its mark, but it did little, if any, against the pepper. All it seemed to do, in fact, was attract its attention and irritate it. The pepper roared and ripped the door apart with its stem. John pushed Sherlock out as he shot a spray of bullets at the pepper.

“Sherlock, run! I'll be okay. Just go get the weed killer!” John shouted, motioning for the consulting detective to leave him. The enraged pepper threw the door in John's direction, it breaking into pieces as it hit the ground.

“John!” Sherlock was paralyzed, his legs molten lead welding into the carpet. The pepper screeched, looming over John, like Godzilla staring down yet another citizen of Tokyo right before stepping on them. Desperation overtook the consulting detective – _Dammit, John, you've instilled sentiment in me –_ and as a last-ditch effort, he grabbed his riding crop, wildly whipping the pepper's backside. The pepper snarled, swatting him to the side like he was only a mere mosquito.

Sherlock watched, helpless, as his partner squeezed his eyes shut, lifting an arm to shield his face. There was nothing he could do; this was it...or at least, it was until the ceiling gave in.

John spluttered, choking on plaster. He opened his eyes, confused; was he dead? He wiped the filth from his eyes and then wiped them again in disbelief. There was a squadron of thirty men in black, full-body jumpsuits battling the pepper with herbicide in their bedroom. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was – surprise, surprise – unimpressed. Bored, even. John rolled his eyes and watched as the giant pepper roared as it shrank, shriveling back to its normal size. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, judging him.

“John,” Sherlock spoke as if what was happening in front of them was ordinary, insignificant, “you could catch flies with a mouth that wide.” John ignored him, only one thought going through his mind. _What the bloody hell was going on?_

*

“For the last time, Sherlock, are you going to tell me what that was?!” John jerked the taller man's arm, his nostrils flaring out of anger. Sherlock simply sneered coldly.

“You are _adorable_ when you're infuriated. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that you resemble a hedgehog right now,” Sherlock said patronizingly, ruffling his blond hair flecked with plaster and grime. “Isn't it obvious?”

“No, _Sherlock_ , it's _not_ obvious to me. Do enlighten me, will you? Just checking, but we both just saw a giant pepper about to kill me, only to be stopped by uniformed men cover from head-to-toe in black dropping in from to ceiling, spraying herbicide, right?” John said through clenched teeth, annoyed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his face softened. “Those men were Special Projects Unit, John. Who do we know that pokes his nose into everyone's business with influence like that?”

“So it was Mycroft, then?”

“Yes, do I really have to spell this out for you? He should be downstairs, waiting for us. Never one to get his suit dirty, Mycroft.” Sherlock held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Mycroft was, just as Sherlock predicted, reclining on the couch where John had been sitting.

“You could have texted, you know. Too proud to even ask for my help in dire situations like this? I had my men wait until the very last minute, poised to spring into action on the roof, hoping that you'd call. Oh, if Mummy saw the state of this place now...” Mycroft said as he swallowed a bite of cake, daintily wiping his mouth with a patterned handkerchief. John and Sherlock locked eyes in horror.

“Oh, apologies, boys, I simply could not resist tasting a bite of Sherlock's first attempt at domesticity. I must say, it's a lot better than I had expected from you,” Mycroft said, noticing their stares. Sherlock's fingers hooked around the ex-army doctor's arm.

“Run!” he shouted, bolting towards the front door.

“Sherlock! Please, listen to me when I say that I _really_ don't want anything next time!”

**Author's Note:**

> 10/7/2012: I forgot when I posted this that I meant to also include the link to the apron that Sherlock has. It's real, by the way. You can buy it [here](http://www.topatoco.com/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=TO&Product_Code=QC-BAKING-APRON&Category_Code=QC%20).  
> Not going to lie, I found out about it when I was reading Avengers fic.


End file.
